"My Position on Security Forces After Victory Is Simple." Ex-Political Prisoner on Shklov Colony, the Underground, and the "Karelichy Case"

Life before 2020. Creativity, Faith, and the Realization of Injustice

The conversation begins with a discussion of his creativity and life before the political upheavals. The hero mentions the release of "The Prison Collection of Works by Belarusian Political Prisoners," which included his poems.

"The most important thing is not to introduce changes that alter history," Uladzimir begins his story. "Recently, the book "The Prison Collection of Works by Belarusian Political Prisoners" was released, and they were distributed in Białystok. My poems were published there, but they wrote that I was allegedly arrested in December. Such distortions are unpleasant."

The former political prisoner recalls that his interest in art appeared back in childhood, as he was raised in a creative family.

"In general, I love creativity; even before the events of 2020, I composed Christian songs, wrote poetry and music. I am a believer, a Protestant, from the Pentecostals," explains the former political prisoner. "My mother wrote poetry in her youth, and my father was a musician — he played the bayan and accordion. In childhood, in the fourth grade, I was a soloist in the folk brass band in our village Navayelnya. I was supposed to go to the national competition "Red Carnations," but I fell ill with rheumatic heart disease, and my career ended there. Then I studied accordion and trumpet at a music school, and mastered the guitar and synthesizer. When I joined the army (in the border troops on the Afghan border in Tajikistan), I served half of my term in the military orchestra."

Павялічыць

The book of works by Belarusian political prisoners "The Prison Collection," in which Uladzimir's poems are published

He entered adulthood initially as a future agronomist. However, he later switched to public and social work, where he saw the systemic problems of the state with his own eyes.

"After the army, I studied at an agricultural technical school to become an agronomist in Navahrudak. I was in my fourth year when I became imbued with the idea of 'saving the world,' withdrew my documents, and went to work," the interlocutor recounts. "I didn't have much to do with politics, but I always had a keen sense of justice.

For the last four years until 2019, I worked as an orderly in a psychoneurological boarding house in Navahrudak. Simply put — an asylum.

There I saw how there was a shortage of medications, diapers for bedridden patients, while senior officials crossed out necessities from the lists. Inspectors from the sanitary station would come — money was collected from orderlies and nurses, bribes were given, and they signed everything. According to SanPiN standards, this boarding house should have been closed altogether.

I always paid attention to small details and put the puzzle pieces together into the bigger picture: I'd look at agriculture — a mess, at production — a mess. Everywhere was a mess."

August 2020. From Peaceful Marches to Preparing for Forceful Resistance

The events of the 2020 election campaign became a trigger. Seeing the brutality of the police, Uladzimir decided not to stand aside and began gathering people around him.

"In July 2020, people in Navahrudak organized marches: they walked with guitars, singing. And then they started to be seized," he recalls. "I was outraged. A flash occurred in my mind — I realized that Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya was like a light at the end of the tunnel. In the 90s, I believed in the charismatic young Lukashenka, but back then, no one knew about his mosaic psychopathy, nor that Moscow had essentially put him in power."

Understanding that the regime could not be changed by peaceful actions, he began to prepare for more decisive actions.

"I got involved in the process. I simply wrote in the local Viber chat: 'I have ideas. Call me.' I realized that the cops would also bite, but I wanted to find those who cared. I gathered a group: there were students and older people. The first meeting took place in the forest. It was a step into the unknown.

At first, we acted in a proven way: we printed and distributed leaflets; I did this almost with my own money, which I earned from construction work. On July 31, I was arrested for the first time. I was gluing posters about the meeting with Tsikhanouskaya's proxies on building entrances. They held me at the police station until four in the morning. Nevertheless, the rally with Tsikhanouskaya's proxies took place on August 1st. I performed there and sang "To Love My Dear Belarus."

After that, the man began to prepare his own rally, which was supposed to include protection against security forces. But the plans did not materialize due to betrayal within their own ranks.

Павялічыць

Uladzimir Harokh in the kitchen of the apartment where he lives with other former political prisoners

The "Karelichy Case"

"As for the 'Karelichy case' — there is a certain amount of truth in the accusations. I am not all pink and fluffy. I was indeed preparing a rally and foresaw a forceful scenario," Uladzimir admits. "I knew that if we gathered, the cops would start grabbing people. Therefore, I prepared a group of strong guys: as soon as arrests began, my group would step in and beat the cops to give people a chance to scatter. I said back then: Lukashenka will not relinquish power voluntarily. Only forceful action.

But what they pinned on me in court — that I had a ton of kerosene hidden, that I was already cutting rebar — that's nonsense.

The trigger for the police was the words of my driver. At a meeting, he blurted out too much, and one of our Karelichy contacts, whose relative served in the police, overheard it. He simply turned me in."

"I Yell: 'Step on It!'" Escape, Underground, and Arrest

When the circle around Uladzimir began to tighten, he was forced to go underground. The man describes how he literally escaped from under the nose of the police.

"On August 6, I returned from Minsk to Navahrudak. A police officer I knew, for whom I had done repairs, called me: 'Come, I need a couple of cubic meters of paving slabs laid'," Uladzimir recounts about the day he was almost arrested. "I immediately understood that something was fishy. Tiles aren't measured in cubic meters! I arrive at the house, and the hostess's relative says that some car is circling. He offered to give me a ride. As we were leaving the house and turning onto the next street, the car of that cop and the major who had arrested me with leaflets was there. I yell: 'Step on it!' We sped into another block, I jumped out, lay down behind parked cars, and watched them search for me."

The next 12 days turned into a real survival test. Uladzimir slept on the ground, hid with relatives and activists, avoiding numerous police roundups.

"In my backpack were military boots, a balaclava, gloves, and a telnyashka. I went into the forest. I'm a border guard; sleeping on the ground is normal for me. Then I moved to Navayelnya. Intuition told me not to go to my mother's, so I went to my sister's, while my mother's place was being searched. I almost got caught. Escaped to the forest again.

Afterward, I was taken to Byarozauka, where I had met Vitold Ashurak a few days earlier. We talked for several hours; I laid out my action plan to him. He then said: 'We've been waiting for these words for ten years.' We immediately understood that we were brothers in arms."

Vitold helped Uladzimir find a safe place in the Lida district. While underground, he continued to coordinate people, but one careless call cost him his freedom.

"I operated as a partisan at home in the Lida district for 9 days; they wouldn't let me go anywhere, but through the internet and meetings in garages, I managed to form seven protest groups. I would have been shot at the rallies, because the plans were far from peaceful.

But I made a foolish mistake — I called my cousin using a 'burner' SIM card and didn't dispose of it. On the evening of August 18, three plainclothes security officers with weapons came for me. I calmly gathered my things; they put handcuffs on me and took me to the Lida District Police Department."

Павялічыць

Shklov Colony, Torture in the SHIZA, and the Death of Vitold Ashurak

After the arrest and a swift trial, a long period in isolation wards began for Uladzimir. But the hardest time for him was in the Shklov colony.

"I was sentenced quickly. They used an audio recording from our meetings and my angry post on Viber against me. My son rescued a wounded lieutenant colonel during a march, and for this, my son was detained and beaten. In a fit of emotion, I wrote in the chat that the authorities would drench the country in blood, using the words 'scum' and 'freak'. For this, they fabricated a charge of insulting the president against me. And also sentenced me for 'mass riots' and handed down seven years of strict regime imprisonment."

While the attitude in the pre-trial detention center was more or less neutral, in Shklov, they began to break political prisoners from the very first days, the interlocutor says.

Soon Uladzimir found himself in an isolation ward.

"On March 6, 2021, I arrived at the Shklov colony. We hadn't even had time to change clothes when they started calling us into the office one by one. There, a brute lunged at me: 'You fascists! You should be shot!' Already on the second day, Major Sazonov filed a report against me, allegedly for swearing.

In May, I was thrown into SHIZA. SHIZA is primarily torture by cold. The window is constantly open, even in frost, a continuous draft. You sleep on bare planks in a T-shirt and a thin synthetic jacket. You breathe inside the jacket, warm up for an hour, then wake up from the cold, squat down, breathe again. To somehow sleep, I made a pillow: I inserted one slipper into another and put a roll of toilet paper inside. The skin on my knuckles cracked, felt fluid-like, and wouldn't heal. They didn't give me medicine, and I treated the wounds with ordinary laundry soap.

I was placed in SHIZA several times. The last time, at the end of 2022, I was placed in PKT for 90 days, during which another 10 days in SHIZA were added. They released me to the squad for three days, and then back to SHIZA. This time — for 42 days. After that, I was transferred to prison. During these 142 days, I lost about 25 kilograms of weight."

It was in these inhumane conditions that Uladzimir witnessed a tragedy that shook the entire country — the death of Vitold Ashurak, who was literally behind the wall.

"On May 14, I was first put into SHIZA. And already on the second day morning, the head of the regime department, Siarhei Uladzimiravich Karcheuski, burst in on me. And with him, a few other cops. When I was giving him my report, I turned my head slightly.

"Why are you turning your head?!" — he hit my head against the wall so hard that I got a bump. He stretched out my legs and began to beat me with a baton. I fell to the floor, but they continued to beat me. I could have fought back, but I knew: if I had taken someone down, reinforcements would have come, and they would have simply killed me.

I was in the adjacent cell with Vitold. I heard some banging and movement; it seemed he wasn't alone there, that someone had been put in with him," the man shares his memories. "Once I heard Sazonov go in and beat him. On May 19, I heard the words: 'Wash your face, underdeveloped one!' These were words directed at Vitold. And on May 21, around noon, Vitold stopped responding.

The radio was turned up to full volume to drown out the sounds, but I heard the cops running and saying that there was 'a sea of blood' there. Then an operative came and reported that Ashurak had died. For me, it was a shock."

After the brutal beating and the sudden death of his comrade literally behind the adjacent wall, Uladzimir had to fight not only the prison administration but also with a paralyzing inner fear.

"And so, after I was beaten, and after Vitold died, I realized: I might simply not get out of here alive.

After that, for some time I had a real phobia — I was very afraid of SHIZA. The solitude itself didn't bother me; I like to reflect and cope with isolation well. But what bothered me was the feeling that here, one step to the right, one step to the left — and they could kill you. When you are beaten in an enclosed space from which there is no physical escape, you simply start to suffocate from hopelessness. This understanding, that you are completely at their mercy and that any punishment could be your last, was the heaviest pressure."

Industrial Zone, Transfer to Prison, and Self-Education

Fearing the former activist's influence on other prisoners, the administration began to isolate him from the others, throwing him into PKT, and later transferred him to a harsh prison regime.

"In the colony, the administration began to fear my consolidation with other inmates. The head of the operational department imposed a ban on communication with me. But people still helped me. The cops deliberately put guys from other squads with me so that I would 'snitch' on them. But I did the opposite — I warned the guys and snitched on the cops themselves. In the industrial zone, I worked at a sewing factory. There were very large military orders there. When the war started, we sewed military uniforms for Russians, sleeping bags. In the carpentry shop, other prisoners made wooden crates for mines and for 'Grad' systems. In the industrial zone, there was an opportunity to move between floors, and I used that time for operational work — I looked for like-minded people."

To stop Uladzimir's communication with others, the administration assigned him the status of "malicious violator" and placed him on the "list of terrorists."

"I was thrown into PKT for 90 days, then again into SHIZA. In total, I spent 167 days 'under cover' (in isolation/punishment cells)," the former political prisoner calculates. "—

At some point, from physical exhaustion and abuse, I just wanted to bash my head against the wall. But I stopped myself: I have someone and something to live for.

I was transferred to a prison regime and put on the "list of terrorists." This meant a complete financial blockade — I received no money transfers, I couldn't buy anything. One two-kilogram parcel per year. We survived together in the cell. If there was one cigarette — we made three hand-rolled cigarettes from tiny pieces of paper."

For almost three years within four walls, Uladzimir used the time for internal transformation and self-education, not allowing hatred to destroy him from within.

"In prison, psychologically, it was even easier. I cope with isolation well. In the libraries of the colony and prison, I found books by historian Viktor Suvorov, the history of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, works on psychology by Erich Fromm and Robert Greene. I wrote about 20 poems, developed my 20-point program for societal development — from medicine to the judicial system. The goal kept me going.

I have no hatred; hatred consumes. I want justice.

My position on security forces after victory is simple: those whose guilt you cannot directly prove should be given a choice. Either you write a sincere confession and serve your time according to the law, or we will lock you up 'without limits' (extra-legally). As for ideological enemies, they should simply be deported from the country."

Павялічыць

Freedom, Emigration, and Life from a Clean Slate

Release brought new challenges: emigration to Poland, loss of property, and the need to build a life from scratch at 53 years old.

"Today I am in Warsaw. My children have dispersed: someone is in Ukraine, my elder son is in Poznań, the younger ones are in Belarus. The regime deprived me of all my property. I have no documents, my driver's license is gone; even my favorite guitar, which was given to me 20 years ago, remained at home. And I'm even afraid to ask someone to transfer it, so as not to put people at risk, because I am officially considered a 'terrorist'."

Having lost almost everything material, the former political prisoner refuses to consider himself a victim of circumstances. He consciously blocks out negativity and focuses on what he has today.

"I have learned to let go of the past and manage my emotions. When pain or sadness comes, I simply don't let it linger long in my mind. Currently, I work in construction. For half a year, it's just daily bread. Of course, it's hard; there's no time for creativity or politics, because I need to get back on my feet, but this is all temporary. I have no time to wallow in depression. I don't play the role of a victim: 'Oh, how I suffered.' Forget it! You'll never achieve positive results with negativity."

Despite the complex adaptation process, Uladzimir looks to the future with optimism and feels strong support.

"I am very grateful to the Polish people and state for their solidarity. I met with government representatives here, and they assured me: 'Poland will never abandon Belarus'. I am also immensely grateful to our Belarusian initiatives and volunteers who helped with an apartment and documents. No one owes us anything here, so we should rejoice and be grateful for every help. I breathe freedom, I see opportunities, and I am not going to give up. I live in the present. And I know for sure: I will find a way to continue towards my goal. The main thing is — I'm alive. And without a smile — you won't get anywhere."

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